Posted by on Sep 21, 2011 in baby's first birthday, birthday letter, letter to my son | 0 comments

It’s been a year. A whole, full, solid year that you’ve lit up our lives, that you’ve made us a family. So much has happened. We have so many memories that I’m desperate to hang on to. I’m worried I’ll forget them as you grow and create new memories year after year, new memories that force the edges of the old to blur.
Here’s what I want – what I need – to remember:
  • Your skinny little newborn legs; I could wrap my thumb and pinky finger in a circle around them, with room to spare.

  • How good you were, always, in any restaurant. Not once did you cry, not once did you make us get up and walk out before we were finished. Not once did someone not comment how good or how sweet or how cute you were.
  • How you would yell until the very second the bottle or sippy cup was in your mouth, even though you knew we were getting it and could see it was coming. You wanted to make absolute certain we wouldn’t change our minds.

  • The way you clapped, softly, and then grinned at us, waiting to hear how smart and amazing and talented you were for that act. And how we always obliged, with tremendous enthusiasm.
  • How you rarely laughed but always smiled. You never laugh hysterically, uncontrollably. You chuckle. And you flash a smile for anyone and anything. It’s an insight to your personality; of that I’m sure.

  • How the first thing I noticed, ever, about you was that you looked like your Dad; and how you grew to look more like him every single day.

  • The weight of you in my arms, all 22 pounds of almost-toddler limply cuddled up to my chest when I woke you up to get you ready in the morning.
  • The nicknames: Rhino, Bubzy, Bubzy Eddie, Bubber, Bubber-Wubber, Mr. Pickle Pants, Bubzy Wubzy Houdini Pickle Pants, Bub, Buddy, Pal.
  • That the words “Wow, he looks so serious!” were the most commonly said by strangers in those first three months.


     
  • The way almost any problem could be solved by me holding you and swaying.


  • How your face lit up when I walked through the door every evening to pick you up from daycare; and then how you’d stare out the back car window when we got home, with a slight smile on your face, waiting for me to open the door and free you from the car seat.

  • The way you’d eat dinner, with one eye on the food I was feeding you and one eye at the kitchen doorway, hoping to catch the occasional glimpse of Dad, who was usually cooking and/or singing.
  • How you would happily chase after Belle, totally oblivious to the look of contempt in her eyes.
  • The head thing. I mean, seriously, what is up with that?
  • Your love of blankets and how one always traveled around the crib with you. All night long, it was thrown over your head, wrapped around your neck like a scarf, or bunched up like a mini-pillow.
  • That you could rarely stop and just be. That as you grew, you had to be either sleeping or in motion… unless you were rocking with Dad in the man chair.

  • That in your first moment on Earth, I looked at you and knew you so completely in my heart that you may as well have been in my life for 50 years.

I’m not sad that you’re a year old. If I cry today (alright, when I cry today), it’s because I’m happy. It’s because today is the anniversary of the day my life changed for the better. Every day, you are a little more fun, a little more sassy, a little more curious, a little more independent.

Dad and I still aren’t quite sure where you came from, how we got so lucky to be chosen as your parents.

You are such a gift.

Happy birthday, Bubber.